Playing At Hearts
by imitateslife
Summary: Neither of them knows when this game stopped being pretend, but something about tonight is different. Gramber. Rated M for language and sex.
1. GraveRobber

A/N: This is a two-chapter fic. Chapter One is from GraveRobber's perspective. Chapter Two is from Amber's. I do not own anything in the story - not GraveRobber, not Amber, not Repo. It all belongs to Terrance Zdunich, Darren Smith, and Darren Lynn Bousman.

* * *

She usually insists on doing it _after_ she's been shot up with Z. She says it's because it doesn't matter; that she won't be able to feel him either way. It's a below-the-belt shot, but that's Amber's way. She's not the kind to stroke other people's egos. Least of all GraveRobber's.

It used to be pillow talk, dirty talk, for her to tease him, call him less of a man, less of a human. It was filthy and fun. But it's getting more real day-by-day. Each time her eyes change, her face changes, her tits… She's less human than he is by now. Has to be. And he's tired of her bullshit. He wants to prove her _wrong._

Under the red glow of the neon lights, she looks beautiful. She's always beautiful; she sees to it. And not in a you-take-my-breath-away-bullshit sort of way. She's that _too_, but, she's Amber Sweet. That's how she's supposed to be. GraveRobber is immune to her plastic good looks. He's immune to most everyone's plastic good looks.

But Amber's done something different tonight and it's not the silicone implants or the new scars visible on her collarbone. It bothers GraveRobber that he can't place _what_ is so different. It's a stupid guessing game she always makes him play. And at this point, GraveRobber is pretty sure it doesn't matter what she does to herself; he can't remember what she looked like in the first place, anyways.

He studies her from a distance.

She's clearly just come from one of her daddy's charity auctions; she's still dressed to the nines. The hem of her shimmering ball gown touches the dirty ground. Her hair – blue-black like the night sky – is streaked with colors that GraveRobber _knows_ Daddy Largo doesn't approve of. Green as grass used to be. Fluorescent pink. Zydrate blue… It's a rock-show of color, compared to the classical symphony of diamonds and silk she's wearing.

And GraveRobber has always had a thing for rock-and-roll. He stirs, in a way Amber always says he won't or can't or doesn't. The first, white-hot chords of lust rumble in the back of his brain.

"I want to play a game," he says, coming up behind her in the alley. She jumps. No doubt her twin eunuch guards are nearby. Still, she's on her guard. GraveRobber can guess why. A girl like her, in a place like this… It's such a cheesy pickup line, GraveRobber thinks of using it. Instead, he just smiles when Amber looks over her shoulder at him and relaxes. "You like games, don't you, Miss Sweet?"

"Zydrate first; games later," she insists, turning around. She pulls her hair to the side and exposes the back of her neck. "Hit me."

She points to the spot she wants the injection: at the base of her neck, just above the shoulder blades. There will be a scar there come morning; chances are that she wants new vertebrae this time; or maybe a more flexible spinal column. GraveRobber doesn't ask what new surgery she's getting; a client is a client. But he wonders sometimes, like now, what good some of these surgeries even are. He doesn't let his mind wander too far, though. Not with that white flesh all exposed in the dim street light. How could he? Up close, she is beautiful. So many of GraveRobber's clients come to him after fucked up surgeries or half-assed jobs. You get what you pay for in this world and Amber can afford the best.

Instead of the Zydrate gun, GraveRobber places a long finger to the exposed spot. Gently, just enough to make Amber shiver at the touch. his eyes widen. Usually, when she staggers to him, she's just coming off a Zydrate high or drunk enough to ease withdrawals. Tonight, she's sober. Surprisingly sober.

"You felt that," he says.

"Felt what?" she snaps.

There are goosebumps dotting her perfect and porcelain skin. GraveRobber's never noticed them before. They've fucked in this alleyway a hundred times, but always after she's Z-ed up. He licks his teeth and thinks. They _never_ do it before; he wonders why that is.

He wants to play a game with Amber Sweet. Just this once.

"I want to do an experiment," GraveRobber murmurs. Right now, he's stooped just a bit so that his breath is on Amber's exposed skin. More goosebumps. His breath calls them to attention.

"You sick fuck." She lets go of her hair and it swings back into place, tickling GraveRobber's nose and lips. He stands upright when she turns around to face him. "Don't you have someone else you can use as your test dummy?"

GraveRobber doesn't answer her with words. Instead he kisses her, hard on the mouth, and snakes an arm around her waist. The kiss is closed-lipped and bruising and it doesn't end until Amber's hands are pushing against GraveRobber's chest and he's released her from his grasp. They pull away breathless. And for a long, silent moment, they stare at each other. Amber reaches up and prods her own lips with her fingertips.

"You felt _that_," GraveRobber says smugly at long last.

"Of course I fucking felt that," Amber spits. She winces when her finger presses too hard on her lip. "What the hell kind of game is this?"

"Dealer's choice."

His pun makes him smirk. Something flashes in Amber's eyes – wary curiosity, maybe lust. Her eyes are a violent shade of green. In the red neon of the signs around them, they stand out. They match one of the colored strands in her fancy updo.

"I'm not familiar with that game," she says flatly, when the spark is gone.

"I'll teach you," GraveRobber says. "It's simple."

"If it's dealer's choice, I'll bet it is," Amber says.

GraveRobber sneers and leans against the wall, effectively trapping Amber there.

"The object of the game is to make you feel something," GraveRobber hisses.

"What? You want me to fall in love with you?" Amber's lips quirk to a smile that says loud and clear: _As if._

"No," GraveRobber says. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear Amber blushed. "I want you to feel everything I do to you this time around. I want to hear you scream – and mean it. I want to see you writhe and malfunction, since the second you're all Z-ed up, you're just going through the motions like some stoned cyborg. I want to know what _actually_ makes you tick, Miss Sweet."

"Why do you care?" Amber rolls her eyes.

"I don't," GraveRobber says. "It's just a game."

He looks up at the flickering sign over their heads. It says No Vacancy, but the second "n" is dead. He's lying, just a little, but he's not making some sweeping romantic gesture, looking out for Amber Sweet's pleasure. She gets plenty of that from her Zydrate high. If he can make her hum like a well-tuned guitar, he'll be able to play her with expert fingers. That's what he tells himself.

"This is an ego thing," says Amber. "You know, I don't _actually_ think you fuck corpses."

"Thanks," GraveRobber says, looking back at her. It is an ego thing, maybe a little. Maybe a lot.

"If I thought that, I wouldn't let that—" She grabs the crux of GraveRobber's pants. Her hand grasps too-tightly and GraveRobber clenches his jaw, exposing a vein in his neck. He suppresses a groan. It hurts, but it hurts the way a nibble on the neck, nails scratching down your back might. "—come anywhere near me."

"Especially when you've paid ten grand for your new parts," GraveRobber says tightly.

Amber squeezes harder. "Learn the value of money. I never pay less than fifty grand for a surgery."

GraveRobber's teeth grind holes in each other from clenching. It hurts worse now. _Not_ in a good way, either. Amber releases him.

"_You_ felt _that,_" she says gleefully.

GraveRobber lets out a held breath. He doubles over and Amber slinks away from him.

"I didn't do any lasting damage," she says. "I'm gonna need all of that for your little "game". We _are _still playing, right? Or are you having some _problems_?"

When GraveRobber turns and looks at her, Amber's pouting. His eyes narrow.

"Oh, we're still playing," he growls. He stands against better judgment and crosses over to her. He grabs the satin sash dangling from around of Amber's middle and he reels her in. "You're just gonna pay for that."

"Cash or credit," she purrs.

"If I thought you had cash on you, I woulda taken it already."

"If I thought that, I wouldn't have worn these," says Amber.

She reaches up and fingers the diamonds she's wearing delicately. GraveRobber touches them – her fingers and the diamonds both – with one hand. He's a scavenger, after all, a GraveRobber. He didn't get the name just for taking Zydrate for corpses. He used to pawn jewelry, gold fillings, whatever he could pilfer from the dead. He likes pretty things. Maybe that's why he keeps Amber around, despite the taunting.

Last time, she'd pushed a button.

"_Can't get it up, tonight, GraveRobber? Shame about that. One of my surGENs could fix you up in no time…" Amber cooed. "I could play dead for you if it'll help…"_

So what if it _is _an ego thing. Sometimes, GraveRobber remembers how much he hates Amber Sweet. It's easy to forget when she sucks him off or thrusts enough money to get by for a full month into his open palms.

For a moment, he considers ripping the diamonds from her neck and taking them as payment. Throw the Zydrate at her. Leave. Those diamonds are worth a small fortune. They've gotta be. He could pawn them and retire to a nice side of town. Change his name and get by for years and years.

"You like them," says Amber. It's not a question; GraveRobber tries to dim his eyes, quell his excitement. "They were my mother."

"Your mother's," he echoes – corrects. It's the first piece of personal information Amber has ever volunteered to him. He wonders why she said it. Why _now_.

"No," Amber says. "They were my mother. You can do that, turn a body into diamonds; keep it out of reach from grave-robbing thugs like you."

GraveRobber can't help himself; he smirks and chuckles, then asks, "How does your mother feel about you fucking grave-robbing thugs like me for drugs?"

He didn't realize Amber wasn't teasing until she starts crying. She felt _that_. She bites her lip and swats GraveRobber's hand away. Oh, yes, she felt that quite deeply.

Sometimes GraveRobber hates her. Really hates her. But sometimes, he remembers that Amber Sweet is human under all those surgical scars and he can't quite bring himself to.

"I don't like this game," she says, ducking under his arm and wiping her eyes clear. "There are hundreds of other dealers in the city I can get a hit from."

"Amber…"

She freezes. He doesn't call her by her first name ever. Not her chosen first name, not her birth first name. When she whirls around and slaps him, GraveRobber isn't surprised. When she wraps her arms around his neck in an embrace, though, he is. Neither of them apologizes. Instead, GraveRobber strokes her hair as Amber cries into his filthy shirt, turning cemetery dirt into mud. The tears stun him too much for him to do anything else.

_So the bitch can cry,_ he thinks. _The bitch can feel._

"You wouldn't really go to another dealer," he says, when her cries are little, sniffly things. It's almost a question. Not quite. He cups her perfectly pointed chin in one rough-hewn hand.

"Maybe I would," she says – she still has her pride. "I've done it before."

GraveRobber lets go of her and looks at her skeptically.

"Before me? I thought I was your first-"

"You were," she says. Then she shakes her head. "But don't be an idiot. Sometimes, when I'm illing, you aren't around. I take what I can get. It's human nature."

"And here I thought I was special."

He's being sarcastic again; a sign that things are normal between them. Or as normal as things between an heiress and drug dealer get. He reaches into his belt and pulls out a vial of Zydrate.

"Pay me tomorrow," he says reaching for the gun. "Don't bring your mother next time."

She laughs and pulls the vial from his hands. It's a broken sound, but a laugh nonetheless. Her one arm is still slung over his shoulders and she rises up on her toes a little to plant a lingering kiss on his lips. This one doesn't bruise, it's tender and slow. When they break away, he sees Amber slide the Zydrate vial into her cleavage.

"These are diamonds now. My mother is dead," Amber says quietly. "I'm sure she doesn't mind if I fuck you right here, right now."


	2. Amber Sweet

GraveRobber looks stunned; as stunned as Amber feels. He doesn't move – except a tiny little twitch – when she rakes a hand down his chest. She's opened up too much and now, like a frightened street rat, he's looking for an escape route. Amber silently thanks herself for _not_ mentioning that tonight's charity fundraiser had been in the memory of her mother; a scholarship program Bianca Largo set up for underprivileged and gifted children to go on and study medicine, to become surGENs and GENterns and Repomen and Repowomen. Bianca was _her_ mother. Just hers. Not Pavi's, not Luigi's. She'd been a smart woman and so stunningly beautiful. Amber never lived up to her mother's hype. No matter how many surgeries she had. She was always a fucking lump of coal, compared to the diamonds around her neck now.

She laces her fingers through GraveRobber's belt-loops.

"What's the matter, GraveRobber?" she says. Her voice is raspy from crying. "Don't you want to play your silly, little game anymore?"

She wants him to. She _needs_ him too. She came to him tonight, not because she was illing. She came because she needs to feel the sweet-sweet bliss of Zydrate pumping through her veins, his cock pumping through her. Anything to drown out her spinning thoughts. He promised her pleasure. She wants him to make good on his promise.

No one has looked out for her pleasure in so long. Not like this. Oh, sure, Daddy pays for surgeries. Pavi sings his "sorrella's" praises at every turn. Luigi stabs anyone who dares to cross her. But that's what family does. No one else gives a damn. Not that GraveRobber _cares_. He's probably just fucking with her mind. It doesn't matter, though. Not really. Who cares _why_ he wants to fuck her? He practically promised her orgasm and – _dammit_ – if that doesn't make her feel better, there's always the Zydrate. She wants – needs – to feel bliss or nothing at all.

Preferably both, one right after the other.

She paws at him gently. She can feel him stiffen through the fabric. She smirks; she's relieved, really, because for a minute, she thought he was going to tell her "no". No one tells Amber "no". No one, anyways, except GraveRobber and this was his idea – his fucking fault in the first place for making her think and she was already so damn raw when she came to him – so she doesn't think she can bear to have him back out now.

"Come on," she urges. "You know you want to tear this dress off with your teeth. Push me up against that dumpster. Make me scream. Something. Anything."

She's pleading, actually. And in the dull red light, she hopes GraveRobber can't see the frantic flush creeping up her neck, her face. She wants him. He has to want her. Doesn't he? She needs him to. Needs to be wanted. Needs to be made important, more important, anyways than a dead mother and a gutter-genius scholarship winner… Both of whom got all Daddy's praise tonight. Daddy's and the press' and everyone's praise.

"_What would your mother say, if she knew you were taking on her legacy of charitable acts?"_ _a Vanity&Vein reporter asked Amber towards the close of the night. _

_He meant the Zydrate Support Network. Here was where she was supposed to plug her brainchild. Her bastard brainchild, conceived in a boardroom while she was coming down with the shakes from a bad Z-trip. She knows just what her mother would say. Her mother would be disgusted, disgraced, ashamed. Like her father. But instead, Amber told him, "I just hope I would make her proud."_

"Don't just stand there!" Amber digs her nails into GraveRobber's hips. Her eyes sting and he's blurry. "_Do_ something!"

He picks her up by the waist, as if she weighs nothing and her hands flutter away from him. Then, with the same tender sort of care, he sets her down on the lid of the dumpster. This isn't what she wanted. She wanted him dirty and rough and fun, like he seems. Like he usually is. Not all gentlemanly and shit.

But then he looks at her, like he has never looked at her before: hungry and probing, like he might be able to see into whatever's left of her soul. Amber shivers. She's never noticed before – _How have I never noticed before?_ – but GraveRobber's eyes are the exact color of Zydrate. That electric blue she craves and clings to and drowns in night after night.

And then the moment passes and he tears her skirt for easy access. The ripping sound excites her and breaks her thoughts. _Finally_. And GraveRobber's hands slide up against her legs. They're callused and dirty against her soft, supple skin. And it's a glorious cacophony that turns symphonic when he slides his fingers into her. The parts are sensitive and tender – only just healed from Amber's last surgery . There's a burst of pain for just a moment that makes Amber whimper. But the skin is new and tightens around him easily once the initial shock fades.

She can't remember ever making love to someone. Having someone make love to her. But as GraveRobber grazes her with his fingertips – and then his lips – Amber tricks herself into believing that that's what this is. Lovemaking. He's slow and deliberate, flicking his tongue – all soft and warm – against her until she gasps and then moans. It's a noise she's never made. It starts out low in her abdomen but rises up into the night as the pressure builds until she's hitting notes – glorious, clear, high notes – that would put Blind Mag to shame. Her head lolls back and smacks into the brick wall behind her. She doesn't feel the pain; just the pleasure.

But no words come when Amber does. She has no name for the man lifting her higher than the sweet-sweet Z he always gives her. No name but "GraveRobber" and the gutturals and vowels she calls out as her hands tangle up in his long, matted hair. Somehow, "GraveRobber" seems inadequate for a man calling forth life from her. She's pulsating for him, aching for him to finish the foreplay, pull himself into her, but she has no words, no names to call him. For once, Amber Sweet is rendered speechless.

His teeth find her netherlips and a hissed "_Fuck_" escapes Amber's lips. The first word she's managed.

_Fuck that hurts._

_Fuck that feels __**good**__._

_Fuck me now._

She wishes she could say any of that. Instead, she just hisses "Fuck" again.

"You like that?" GraveRobber murmurs against her thigh. He drags his tongue in patterns over where he's bitten. Soothing circles. Amber's hands fall to his shoulders. She shuts her eyes tight. His tongue taps Morse code, maybe his name, maybe hers. Without the Zydrate pumping through her blood, Amber likes the feeling, the mix of gentle and hard, soft and sharp, tracing her skin. She hates it, too, hates herself, because he's making her melt and he's molding her how he wants. She'd do anything to him, with him, for him just to keep feeling like this.

But she doesn't hate him for that. He said he'd do it and he did. He gave her plenty of warning, so the only one to blame – the only one to hate for agreeing to this – is her.

But she hated herself before they got started anyways. And she'll hate herself still in the morning light. Until the next surgery. And then again when the novelty wears off. She always does; there's a scratching at the back of her mind at all times, reminding her how worthless she actually is under the borrowed skin and pretty jewels and gobs of money. This is just an illusion, like everything else. And tomorrow, Amber won't be special. Not to GraveRobber, not to herself, not to anybody.

She whimpers when he brushes her clit with his tongue again. And again when he murmurs, "You _do_ like that" against her inner thigh.

"No. I don't," says Amber. But she doesn't mean _him_. She doesn't like herself and the feelings of self-loathing are back tenfold. How can she tell him _that_ without ruining the moment? She'd rather wound his ego the way she's wounded her own than tell him what's going through her mind.

She doesn't want him to know she wishes she was as special as he's making her feel.

Suddenly the place between her legs grows cold and GraveRobber stands before her, eyelevel to her. His lips are wet, glistening. She stares at them longingly and somehow wins a small smile from him. Amber leans forward to kiss him so she can taste her own salty tang on his lips. But GraveRobber dodges her and goes to her ear. His hand slips between her thighs; his lips nibble and caress. Amber groans.

"You lose points for lying," GraveRobber whispers.

"I don't believe in losing," Amber says, gritting her teeth. "Especially not to filthy—"

His fingers find her clit again and she moans, rocking forth and pressing her head to his shoulder.

"_When_ you lose," murmurs GraveRobber. "It's my turn."

"I've sucked you off – _gasp_ – a hundred times," says Amber. "Greedy bastard."

"And you love it," he says. "We both do."

He twists his fingers, moving in rough circles that have Amber shaking all over. She grabs his head and pulls his lips to hers. They're warm and fierce and strong and when his tongue flicks against Amber's lips, she lets him in. The kiss is what sends her over the edge and when they pull away, GraveRobber sucks her lip teasingly.

"That's two," he says smugly. He retracts his hand.

"Again," Amber insists, reaching down for his wrist.

"Greedy bitch," GraveRobber says with a laugh.

"You love it," she says between ragged breaths.

"Maybe."

Amber glares at him, but releases his wrist. She moves to his zipper and feels him – all rigid and ready for her – and she looks up and grins at him. She slides his pants down his hips and glides her fingertips over his cock. It's so well-formed that she is surprised it's not a GeneCo model. She thinks of telling him, but doesn't. She's glad it doesn't belong to GeneCo. That means it's hers for the taking. She holds him in her greedy hands for a minute, just enjoying the warmth, the firmness, of his flesh. She wants him – _Oh God _– she wants all of him right here, right now.

But she also wants to tease him. He's played her with all the skill of a one-man-band. She wants to make this a duet. And to do that, she needs to slow things down.

"Goddammit Amber," GraveRobber hisses. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Nothing," she says coyly.

"No shit."

She guides him into her in one, swift motion. _So much for making it last._ She's already so slick for him. Still, she pulses around him, as if it will help. GraveRobber cants his hips in a back-forth motion that makes him brush Amber just right for the both of them. He groans as Amber wraps her legs around his waist, holding on as his thrusts intensify. He grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her so that she has no choice but to kiss him; breathe him in. His hand slackens and tenses, running through her hair and making her feel nothing but excited bliss. Again, she wonders how a man who feels like life is called "GraveRobber". Just GraveRobber. He's the only one she's let take the reins and even though she's melting in his hands, he's no rougher than he has to be. He's _giving_. And it's glorious. Amber's tongue slides against his and she swallows his moan. His breath fills her lungs.

His rhythm intensifies – from 4/4 time to 2/4 – and the music he makes as he pushes to give Amber a third orgasm create a glorious melody to their beat. And when he succeeds, Amber's voice joins his in the song. He comes almost immediately after. When he pulls out, they are silent and sweaty. Amber can hear their breaths – their ragged, marathon-runners' breaths – but she can't tell whose is whose any more.

A siren wails in the distance. They both tense until it's passed by. Imagine, getting caught like _this_: a shade away from undress, body pressed to a graverobber, and you're the only daughter of the world's most powerful man. The tabloids wouldn't just be unkind, they'd be merciless.

The prospect of getting caught terrifies and thrills Amber. Most things terrify and thrill her when she's with _this_ GraveRobber. Especially tonight.

Most of all, the silence terrifies and thrills her. She doesn't know what to say to him. She knows what she _wishes_ she could say, but it sounds so ridiculous in her head that she doesn't.

_Thank you._

That was the best she's had in a long time. Maybe ever. Maybe that's why she's always insisted on being shot up first, paying later. She liked not feeling anything towards GraveRobber. But now she feels gratitude and arousal and connection. And it's sick. He's nothing in her world.

But here, in this alleyway, he's _everything_. He's her dealer; her savior from herself; her sparring partner; her lover. Her equal. He's something special and for a moment, he's tricked her into thinking that maybe she is, too.

But like "GraveRobber", titles seem inadequate.

She studies him. His white makeup is running away from his skin, revealing flesh. She's never seen him without his makeup before. Beads of sweat crack the porcelain-colored mask. And his skin looks so touchable. She's already thinking of 'next time' – because there _will_ be a 'next time' – and of finding a place where she can strip him, claw his back, rake her hands over his chest, grab his ass, his thighs, his biceps. His body is _au natural_ and foreign in the most exquisite way. She wants to memorize the map of his skin, until she knows every side-street the way she knows the city.

He said he wanted to know what made _her_ tick. She wants to know what makes him practically explode.

"Amber," he pants, when words have returned to him. Her name sounds glorious on his lips. "I was serious. About that blowjob."

Amber's eyes go wide. So much for glorious.

"Who's greedy now?" she asks.

"I've earned it."

"I'll be the judge of that," she says.

But Amber is more than willing to oblige. Ecstatic, even. It's a way to thank him without saying the words. She unwraps her legs from his waist and slides off the lid of the dumpster. As she slides, she slides against him – his chest, his hips – just to hear him swear and say her name under his breath. She trails light kisses on her way down. She'll tease him, all right. But once she's on her knees, she's there for worship.

She grows him as much as she can with her lips, with her tongue, making him come back to life after she's all but worn him out. He really is well-formed. Upon closer inspection, he's not _perfect_ per se. He lists slightly to the left and the large vein is jumpy. But he's beautiful, anyways. He revives with each stroke and each kiss.

She steadies herself as he begins to rock, diving deeper into her willing mouth. Above her, he grunts and groans and growls. His hands knot in her hair and the pain makes Amber actually wince. Now that he is the focus, GraveRobber is no gentleman. He's a man and a selfish one at that. Amber scrapes him with her teeth just to feel him flinch.

_Doesn't feel so good, does it?_ She thinks, but to her surprise, he moans her name almost immediately after. Maybe because her tongue is healing the spot. Maybe because he likes the pain. If he's a glutton for punishment, next time, Amber might have to play with that. Bring out toys or smack him around a bit.

But right now, she's playing with _him_. She doesn't need toys – not chains or whips or riding crops – to turn him on. Right now, he's as far in as he can get and he's mumbling things like "Shit, Amber" as if they were prayers, even though she's the one kneeling.

When he comes, it's all at once and Amber knows it's the last time of the night. She relishes the salty, earthy taste and makes eye contact with him after she swallows. His half-lidded eyes smolder. Amber can feel GraveRobber's legs wobble. He's spent; exhausted. She pulls back when his hands slide out of her hair. Then he crouches down beside her on the hard ground, sits.

Her dress is ruined and her knees ache. But she feels so good all over that it doesn't matter. If this was some old-timey movie, he'd pull out a couple of cigarettes and she'd fish for a lighter. They'd revel and banter, basking in the afterglow. But instead he says, "I knew you'd like this game."

"Mm," she says. "Did I win?"

He looks at her incredulously. "What do you think?"

"Call it a draw," says Amber. "We'll go for best two out of three next time."

GraveRobber laughs. It's a throaty, self-indulgent sound. It makes Amber laugh, too. She rests her forehead on his shoulder. Call it instinct, since no one's ever taught her how to enjoy the afterglow. She's used to foreplay, not post-play. And the way he stiffens up, squares his shoulders, Amber thinks that maybe she's not the only one out of her depth. Usually, she's higher than GeneCo Tower and half-passed out by this point. And usually, he's long gone.

Amber has to think quick if she wants this time to be different.

"This is called cuddling, GraveRobber," she tells him. "It's what people do after sex."

"Most people zip up their flies and leave," he says.

"Is that what you want?" she asks. Her voice is poisoned with hurt she doesn't expect to be there. She lifts her head. "Do you want to zip up your fly and run away?"

"I was just making an observation," says GraveRobber coolly. "Jesus, Amber."

"So was I," she says.

They sit in total, awkward silence. In the distance, the sounds of the street pulse around them. Nightclub music. Drunken wolf whistles. Squeaky brakes. A cat yowls.

"I know what cuddling is, you know," GraveRobber says after a few moments. "I'm not stupid."

"Coulda fooled me," says Amber. "You acted like nobody's ever touched you after sex."

"Most girls leave," he repeats, this time softer. "Or pass out in the alley, whatever. Nobody _cuddles_ anymore."

On his lips, the word sounds venomous.

"Did you take a poll?" Amber sneers.

He shoots her a withering glance.

"For fuck's sake, this is a business transaction," says GraveRobber. "Not an interrogation."

"No," Amber says. "This is a game. The object of the game is to make you feel something."

"Oh for crying out loud-!"

"It was your shitty idea," Amber points out. "Don't yell at me. Or are we not playing anymore?

He relaxes, just barely. "I thought we were done."

"This is round two," Amber says. "We agreed. Best two out of three."

"Now?" asks GraveRobber. "_Again_? You are never fucking satisfied. If I gave you as many orgasms as you want, it'd kill me. Is that what you want?"

Amber shakes her head. "I'm not talking about sex, dickbrain."

"Zydrate?" he asks, reaching for his Z-gun.

"When was the last time someone touched you, anyways, GraveRobber?" Amber asks. "For something other than sex or Zydrate?"

He falls silent. They both do. Amber smiles. She puts her head on his shoulder again.

"I'm not asking you for either," she says. "Not right now."

"Yeah right."

She nestles against him. He doesn't resist. Truthfully, Amber can't believe she spat his words back at him so quickly. All she really wanted was to be held, to savor the moment, before she goes back to being GeneCo's favorite and only daughter and he goes back to being just another wanted criminal. She craves him; not just his sex. There's something healing about GraveRobber tonight that makes her feel more.

She wonders if, for him, this is just sex and business. It _can't_ be because he started this game. This challenge. She puckers her lips, thinking.

No one has touched him in God-knows how long for anything besides sex or Zydrate. She almost feels bad for him. Almost. She's never been a particularly cuddly person; he doesn't seem like the type, either. But she wants to hold him for a good, long time right now. Because when she lets him go, the evening is over. And when the evening is over, she's got to trudge back to her life, where Daddy looks at her with disgust and Pavi dares her to fuck Luigi and Luigi spits vulgar names at her to remind her that she's last in everything. No one has touched _her_ in God-knows how long for anything besides sex or Zydrate, either.

"We're sitting ducks," GraveRobber whispers. He presses his head against hers. Maybe it's affectionate, maybe it's for comfort. "The longer we sit here, the longer the GeneCops have to find us."

"Maybe we shouldn't meet up in public alleyways," she whispers back. "Fuck the GeneCops. _Anyone_ could see us."

"I'm sorry my alleyway isn't good enough for you," says GraveRobber with a sneer.

"You don't actually live here," Amber says.

"You don't know that."

"Do you sleep in the dumpster?"

"Fuck off."

"You _do_."

"Not every night," admits GraveRobber.

"You're just trying to make me stop touching you."

"Did it work?"

Amber hesitates for a moment, sits up. She looks into GraveRobber's Zydrate eyes and tries to see if he's joking or not. He's _not_ poor. She knows that. She and a bunch of other junkies keep him too well-paid for him to be poor. If he lives on the streets, it's a conscious choice. _Why_ she doesn't know. What she does know is that she doesn't usually like dirty things. She likes crisp cleanliness.

But she also likes GraveRobber.

"No," she says, putting her head back on his shoulder. "I just can't keep my hands off of you."

"Of course you can't."

"You don't like it?" she asks. She swivels her head so she's looking at him again. He frowns.

"Don't be like that."

"Like what?"

"All pouty and shit," he says. "Of course I fucking like it when you touch me."

"Then why…?"

"I like you better when you're Z-ed up," says GraveRobber. "You don't talk this much."

"I like you better when you've got your mouth full," Amber snaps. "But we aren't talking sex or Zydrate right now. Remember?"

"I could get up and leave-"

"Can you even stand?" Amber asks. "Twice in one night is pushing it. And I'll bet I wasn't your first customer tonight."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Please," says Amber. "I'm not naïve enough to think that what we did was special or anything."

"Of course not," GraveRobber says. He wraps his arm around Amber's waist. "It's just a game."

"Exactly." Then she says, "Nothing but fucking."

She curls up against him and puts her head on his chest. Under the thin, yellow fabric of his shirt, she can hear his heartbeat. It's steady and strong, a little fast for a man at rest. She wonders why. Doesn't wonder for too long. Doesn't want to know for sure. She smiles and sighs. For now, she can pretend it's because of her and not because he's nervous about the GeneCops or some shit. He pins her to his side with his arm.

"The dumpster's more comfortable than the ground," he tells her. "We could both fit."

She laughs. "You weren't kidding."

"'Course not. What kind of dumpster rat would I be if I didn't sleep in a dumpster sometimes?"

"I'm gonna rent an apartment," says Amber. "A little one, under a different name. You could sleep there sometimes. Get a shower."

"I don't need your charity," GraveRobber says.

"I'm not being charitable," says Amber. "I'm thinking about next time."

"I thought this wasn't about sex or Zydrate."

"It's not," says Amber. "It's about my new knees and your old back."

GraveRobber chuckles. "I'm not old."

"Your back is," she says. "I'll bet you were born with all your vertebrae."

"The good thing about being all natural," says GraveRobber. "Is the lifetime guarantee."

"The good thing about GeneCo is the lifetime warrantee," Amber says. "What would you do if you threw out your back?"

"I'm not old."

Amber laughs. "You're so fucking defensive."

"Some of us have to be."

"Not tonight," says Amber.

What she means is: _Not with me._ Foreplay is for insults. And foreplay is over for the night. GraveRobber grunts noncommittally.

"You're right," he mutters. "You weren't my first tonight."

"Thought so." Amber pauses. Then, almost shyly, she asks, "Was she any good?"

"For a Z-ed up scalpel slut," says GraveRobber.

"I was better."

"I didn't say _that_," GraveRobber says with a smirk. Amber scoffs. "It goes without saying."

"You were my first tonight," Amber tells him.

"Thought so," GraveRobber says.

"Not for lack of offers." At the charity gala, Amber was propositioned by half a dozen men in tuxedos. Every last offer was a veiled innuendo, said in front of her father by politicians and bankers' sons and aspiring opera stars. Somehow, she thinks GraveRobber is better than any of them could hope to be.

"I'd expect nothing less," he says. Then, "The Bianca Largo Foundation Gala, right?"

"How did you know that?"

"News travels, even out to my dumpster."

"Ha-ha."

"I was a scholarship finalist in high school," he tells her. "Didn't make the cut."

"No shit," Amber says. If he _had_ made the cut, he'd be a surGEN or a RepoMan or some shit. She tries to imagine GraveRobber as one of her daddy's lackeys. He'd look good in a shiny, black RepoMan's uniform. If he'd been one of them, he would have been at the gala tonight. But she might never have given him a second glance. "What happened?"

"Got suspended. Dropped out," he says. And that's the end of that line of thought. Amber thinks for a moment. GraveRobber isn't much older than her. All she'd have to do to learn his name is go through the records and look for a picture of a teenager with Zydrate eyes…

Unless, of course, he's lying.

"You would be a shit RepoMan," she tells him. "And an even worse surGEN."

"Thanks." He sounds smug, like she'd just complimented him. And in a way, she has. He wouldn't follow the rules and they both know it.

"You really hate everything about GeneCo," Amber murmurs.

"Most things," says GraveRobber pointedly. "I keep you around."

"I'm not a thing," Amber says. "I'm a person."

"Until tonight, I wasn't so sure," GraveRobber says. When she pulls away he says, "I know better _now_. Obviously."

"We've had sex before-"

"Not like this."

She rests against him again and shuts her eyes. He's right, of course. He's right a lot of the time. But especially about this. Usually, when they have sex it's a business transaction. Like the old saying goes: Wham, Bam, Thank You Ma'am. Quick and dirty, with cash changing hands for Zydrate. Tonight isn't about that and _why_ that is mystifies Amber. One thing she does know is that going back to quickies for Z is going to be harder than she will ever admit.

"I'm serious about that apartment," she says with a small yawn.

"Good," GraveRobber says. "My back is killing me."

Amber laughs softly and she kisses his jawline.

"I could sneak you back to my place," she murmurs. "Eider down pillows and satin sheets."

"And a personal trainer that wakes you up at six AM, no thank you," GraveRobber says. "I'm not a morning person."

"Me either," Amber confesses. "And I don't have a personal trainer."

"I don't know how your half lives," he says. "But I'd rather take my chances in my dumpster than risk getting caught in your bed by one of your crazy brothers."

"They're idiots," Amber says dismissively. "They would think you were some guy from the party and not think twice."

"Yeah, right. Even Pavi can't be as dumb as he looks."

"He's not," Amber says. "But he looks really fucking dumb, doesn't he?"

GraveRobber grunts noncommittally. Amber doesn't want to talk about Pavi, either. Silence descends.

"We could get a hotel room, if you're so keen on getting outta here," GraveRobber says. "I know a couple cheap motels…"

"I don't do cheap motels," Amber says.

"Of course not." GraveRobber rolls his eyes.

"I know some real hotels," she says. "Quality places."

"So the paparazzi can find us in the morning. I'd rather not."

Amber sighs and stands up on shaky legs. She uses the dumpster for support and looks down at GraveRobber.

"This is why we never spend the night together," she says.

"No, we don't spend the night together because usually, you're passed the fuck out."

"No. Because you're so damn frustrating!" She smacks a hand down on the dumpster lid and some roaches scatter.

"Pot calling the kettle black," says GraveRobber as he clambers to his feet.

"Fuck you."

"Yes, you did."

Amber glares at him and sighs. He's such a smug prick. But she honestly can't imagine him scuttling off to tell anybody he scored with Amber Sweet. She can't imagine he has many friends. Not because he isn't charming. He is. But because even though Amber's not going to admit it, she understands him. He's above everybody on these streets except maybe her.

She's the same way.

Which is probably why she just shakes her head and says, "I won't do it ever again if you keep pissing me off."

GraveRobber puts a hand to his chest mock-delicately.

"Whatever will I do?"

"Find some Z-ed up scalpel slut to suck you off," Amber says flatly.

"They aren't as much fun."

"I thought what we did wasn't special."

"It wasn't," says GraveRobber. "It's how we did it."

Amber stares at him. She doesn't understand what he means, but he kisses her while she's stunned and leaves her speechless. When they pull away, he's somehow pulled the Zydrate vial out of her bra and he grins.

"Same time tomorrow night, Miss Sweet," he says. "Bring cash."

And with that, he disappears into the shadows, leaving Amber's cheeks burning.

Somehow, she can't wait until tomorrow night.


End file.
